


Until I Started Acting

by Jalules



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Identity Issues, Post-Invasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:39:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many things left unresolved, after. Invasions will do that. The end of the world will do that, averted or no. Change and loss and things unsaid will do that.<br/>In pieces, in parts, in quiet conversations and shared moments, this is remedied.</p><p>(Unrelated moments, published together under a common theme.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until I Started Acting

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At the helm of the bioship M’gann feels like a queen.

If this chair is her throne and her will is the law (it can be,) then she could be a ruler. If the stretch of sky before her is opportunity and Conner at her side is a loyal guard (he is,) then she could be a conqueror.

She is a hero, now, a helper, a savior and a bleeding heart. She is soft and sweet and aching. But she is other things; sharper, colder, angrier in the time it takes to narrow these human eyes, without warning, so that when she strikes it is a shock. She is complex, shifting, never something expected. She is dangerous and driven. With motivation, with a strong enough hurt or the loss of something beloved she can shift the soft and sweet parts of her away, too deep to find, easy as changing the shape of her face.

She could be terrible. She _has_ been terrible, in small ways, in secret ways that are known to only a handful of friends and teammates and she would like to keep it that way, almost wishes that handful were slightly smaller. She could change that too, change minds, change memories. She could be terrible.

 _But you won’t_ , Conner’s words are gentle in her mind, ringing out only a half-second before she’s formed a mirror of the phrase herself, spoken them to create an echo, an out of sync harmony.

_But I won’t._

She won’t.

Conner’s hand finds hers, holds so, so gently. He isn’t afraid to hurt her, hasn’t been for a long time, but his affection translates to tenderness, always. He holds his tongue at times, because that has been known to betray them both, causing greater hurt with a too-true word than he could hope to do with still eager fists. It’s pointless when their conversations are two-tiered, when the words that are bitten back still sound off inside their minds, but it always stings a little less without the effort it takes to move tongue and teeth and lips.

They’re still working on…this. This.

Conner loves her still, always has, always will. It’s almost a relief to have been dumped by him before, just to know that he can do it, that he has it in him. She has worried, (once took pride in the notion,) that he could never be without her. But he’s proven that theory wrong, has shown her where the line is drawn, how much he is willing to take.

He may be even more naïve than she was when she came to Earth in disguise, with a bright and practiced human smile plastered to her face, but each of his questioning glances and cautious mental prods for clarity, for reassurance, are a blessing to her. Conner will love her no matter what, she knows that. He’s told her so in spoken words and in frantic thoughts, in lips pressed to her neck and in strong arms holding her to him, holding her up, keeping her safe and keeping her close and just keeping her, keeping her.

He will love her, always, but he won’t stay if she is in the wrong. For months he’s been the one watching her, warning her silently not to be the worst that she can be, not to lash out, not to violate every inch of trust she’s earned here among friends, not to sacrifice the morals she thought she had in hot bursts of anger toward enemies.

Now he looks at her like the sun, beautiful and bright and naturally there, always there, so right and vital and fulfilling till she’s burning, till everything under her gaze withers and falls to ruin. Never before has M’gann thought herself a star but reflected in Conner’s eyes she can see it, the shine and the distant wonder and the deep instinctual knowing that there is something there to be feared.

Conner knows her, loves her, deeply. He trusts her, just enough.

She will not be a queen, a ruler, a conqueror. She will be a hero, a helper. She will trust Conner with her bleeding heart and her lingering hurts, with the ever present knowledge of how badly she could break him or anyone.

 _You won’t,_ Conner tells her, so soft, holds her hand just a little tighter, and M’gann nods, an acknowledgement more than a confirmation.

They’re still working on this.

 

::

 

In a stark Watchtower hallway, Artemis nearly passes Kaldur’ahm by.

He reaches out to touch her arm, interrupting her hyper focused, or perhaps, entirely unfocused, forward stride. His smile is delayed, restrained in the moment it takes for his mind to connect the relative safety of their current position to the plain fact that he is happy to see her, to separate out the look of her copper Tigress armor from the outdated idea that they are undercover and unhappy.

He is dressed in red, not black, is welcome here, is no traitor. She is unmasked, and familiar no matter what, in her eyes, in the stern set of her mouth when she turns to look at him. She is a hero, a friend. She seems just as lost as he feels.

“Artemis,” He says, pleased, and it is a good thing to say aloud. It is her name, first and foremost, and no matter what costume she chooses to wear, no matter where she stands, that one thing will always be true.

She stares up at him, questioning, calculating. It takes her longer to catch up, to relax after time spent playing a role, wearing a face other than her own. She smiles, eventually, just slightly, and when she says his name it’s with the same breath of relief that lightens his lungs, his soul, “Kaldur. Did you need something?”

Mission minded, always. He remembers her years ago, laughing easily, first sharp and mocking, then warmer, more at home. He doesn’t expect to hear that sound again any time soon, but there is always hope.

“I simply wondered how you were doing,” He says, and though his smile stays, hers falters. There are no good answers to the questions he is not quite asking, not yet. It feels like he’s hardly seen her lately, though this may be the byproduct of so much time spent together in earlier weeks. Having Artemis as a constant companion, at his bedside and in his mind, helping him become himself again, he has grown used to her presence. There is space between them now, and though it is a space he can respect, can appreciate, he wishes it just a little smaller.

He does not feel quite as welcome here as he truly is. He does not feel entirely himself. He steps lighter, more carefully than necessary. He has seen her taking the same cautious steps, afraid to tread on hurt feelings, to dredge up any more secrets. He has seen her stand very still, to go unnoticed, to hide her face when the things that make her cry alone threaten to spill her over in public.

“I’m doing…okay,” Artemis says, and though she picks and chooses her words, Kaldur knows she isn’t lying.

He nods, says, “Good.” Though okay is not good, is not great, it is enough.

“And how are you doing, Kaldur?” She asks, voice lilting with the hope that he will have a better answer, will have all the answers.

He thinks that he could lie, just a little, and tell her that he is doing well. He could say that he is pleased with the team’s progress and that he feels slightly less out of place, out of sorts, than he did just yesterday, and the day before that. These things would be true, and if he smiled a little wider, put a more pleasant inflection in his tone, than he would be lying just enough to make them seem more true than they are.

Artemis knows his lies though, has looked him in the eyes as they shared in the short, sharp lie of her death, in the longer, exhausting lie of lives that weren’t theirs. She can see through him easily now.

So he does not lie. He does not even stretch to find the farther, brighter truths. He says, “Admittedly, I have been better.”

And she laughs, a slice of sound, a stifled thing. She shifts her feet like she might leave, but she stays. She leans back against the cool wall of the hallway and tilts her head like she’s challenging him. Maybe she’s just tired. She must be so, so tired.

She says, “That’s not a promising forecast, fearless leader.”

Kaldur doesn’t say that he is nowhere near fearless- that is a known thing, not a truth to be revealed. He doesn’t say anything at all, and Artemis jumps to fill the silence, speaking fast in the way that she does when she wants to get words out before thinking better of it.

“I’m supposed to have dinner with Wally’s parents tonight,” She says, and it is a confession, a plea for help when she turns her guarded eyes just a little bit hopeful, “Would you want to maybe come with?”

Kaldur isn’t sure what to say. He thinks that after everything they’ve been through, he would stay at Artemis’ side through hell and high water. He thinks about how he doesn’t spend much time out there in the world, with civilians, with the parents of fallen friends and team members. He thinks that it could be uncomfortable.

“I would not want to-” He begins to protest, but Artemis speaks over him in a way that is not polite, that riles him a little, just a little, but which he’ll never mention.

“Intrude?” She supplies the word as if plucking it right from his mouth, shrugs casually, playing relaxed poorly enough that he would see through the act even if they didn’t know each other so well, “Already feels like I’m intruding when I’m there on my own. They’re not _my_ family, you know.”

She pauses there, bites at her lip, and Kaldur knows that this is something she wishes in a hundred little ways; that they were her family, that she was theirs, that they were a whole unit instead of a broken thing that clings at the edges, barely holding together.

Kaldur thinks that there is no good space for him in the West’s home, in their family, but that for a visit, he can fit well enough. Perhaps if he stands at Artermis’ side, she will fit a little better herself.

“It is very kind of you to offer,” He says, “And if you are certain the Wests will not mind…”

He trails off and Artemis doesn’t argue the point, doesn’t confirm or deny. She has no patience for unfinished thoughts. She pushes off the wall and moves forward, unclear in whether or not he is expected to follow, “Dinner’s at six sharp,” She says, “We can zeta there together if you want.”

“I would like that,” Kaldur says, because it is truth, because it’s a good thing to say aloud. He walks with her, to stay close, to move through the same space for a while. They tread carefully, light on their feet, and the steps match up.

Artemis does not pass him by.

 

::

 

Just outside a zeta tube, in the momentary lull between following orders and picking up new ones, Bart watches Jaime be himself, wonders how he manages.

It’s a quiet moment, one with stars overhead and a sense of anticipation building, and Bart is tapping his feet quick, anxious, in boots that are entirely the wrong color, wishing for more sound. He doesn’t do well without a flow of conversation.

Jaime doesn’t seem to mind it though; he’s quiet, reflective, smiling at the night sky like he’s relieved it’s there. He’s calmer now, after everything, happier. He’s different in a way that makes Bart think this is how he must have always been, before the scarab attached itself to his spine, before anyone showed up with an offer to join a team, with a warning about a future of falling ash and fallen heroes, with a desire to pilot his body through the motions of public relations and private executions in turn.

Bart is different too, or at least, comes in a different wrapper, and that’s still something he’s coming to terms with.

“Kid Flash?” A voice over the radio breaks the silence, makes Jaime stand up straighter beside him, doesn’t really phase Bart at all until he hears it again, impatient, “Kid Flash?”

Jaime nudges him, shoulder to shoulder, and Bart jumps at the realization of how close he’s gotten.

“Here,” He says, sharp, “Right here, got it, gotcha, what’s up?”

It’s Batgirl, checking in, making sure that Blue is with him, that they’re set to go.

“Totally,” Bart tells her, with a smile he’s not really feeling, “All crash here.”

Less than crash lately. Feeling guilty lately, ill-fitting lately, like it’s him that doesn’t match up to the new suit and not the other way around. He doesn’t respond to his new name quick enough, is uncomfortable under the title once it settles, once he remembers that he’s dressed in yellow and representing something bigger, important. It shouldn’t feel like more pressure than saving the world from an alien invasion but it does. It feels like so much more than a name, than a suit.

He doesn’t tell Batgirl any of that. He doesn’t tell Blue about that either, though Jaime keeps looking at him in that sad way, that concerned way, with eyes that are way too human in such an alien face. It’s worse unmasked, that look, though Bart is getting to the point where he’s so much more comfortable in civilian clothes than in any of this, it’s almost worth Jaime’s pity just to hang out off-mission.

This was never part of the plan. Save the world, sure. Stop Blue- no, _save_ Blue, yes. Meet the family, sweet bonus. Lose some of that family, absolute failure. Assume a superhero identity that doesn’t belong to him? Not the plan. Not any kind of plan. Even with the suggestion of it, the seed planted when he and Wally were running side by side, when he was grinning with the idea that someone thought he was good enough to be part of a legacy, it never took root as a serious thing.

He thinks, looking back, that if things had gone differently, if he’d had a choice between staying himself and becoming a guy that the world wasn’t supposed to notice was dead-

But that’s not something worth considering anymore. The past stays the past now, stubbornly, frustratingly, without another one in a million shot at time travel on hand. There’s no fixing what’s gone wrong, no going back. There’s forward, though, and that at least is a direction Bart likes. He can do forward, especially now that the future is so…so…bright? Daunting? Some combination of the two.

The radio cuts out, Batgirl becoming busy with things more important than checking up on them, and the world is quiet again. They should probably get the lead out.

Jaime is looking at him though, _that_ look, and Bart doesn’t move more than his anxious, tapping feet.

“Bart,” Jaime says, questioning, a different kind of checking in, and that’s still a name he can respond to. Bart Allen. Bart Impulse Allen. Just Impulse, once. It was crash while it lasted.

Bart shrugs, casually, a silent announcement that he’s fine, totally fine, getting better every day and eventually he’s going to get the hang of this, and Jaime frowns. He likes it better when Jaime smiles, teeth shockingly white against the black of his armor.

“Yeah. Yeah I know,” Jaime says softly, not to him at all but rather in response to something the scarab has told him, and though Bart can almost always tell the difference now he pretends that Jaime has agreed with him, that he’ll let this go, that he understands.

He does understand, sort of. Often. The two of them have a lot in common. Bart has always said so and it’s only gotten truer over time. There are things that Jaime wants to say, to relate, Bart can see it in his face, but there’s still a wall there, built on old fear and the uncertainty of new friendship. There isn’t time to take it all apart right now.

Bart adjusts his goggles, wincing when they inevitably pinch, an awkward fit that he can never seem to fix. He leans over quick, encroaching on personal space to nudge Jaime’s shoulder with his own, to make the wall between them seem lesser.

It’s a start.

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End file.
